Poems by Susan Vidd

I have experienced many things.
But, really, my life is quite ordinary.

I can talk, walk, dance and sing;
play sports, wear shorts and sport a ring.

I can trim a tree or cut the grass.
I can shovel the snow for you to pass.

I can drive a boat, a car, a truck and a van.
I can crimp some paper and make a fan.

I can cook and bake and clean a stove.
Once, from a platform of eight feet I dove.

I can put out a fire and perform CPR;
accurately identify a bird's call from afar.

I've been mothered and smothered and covered in dirt.
I've worn bug spray and sunscreen and an old tattered shirt.

I've climbed trees and caught bees and examined the bugs.
I played wembley peg with my fingers; changed tires with lugs.

I hopped a train as a kid and rode for a block.
I am totally fascinated by a plain simple rock.

I was able to sail on a boat made of teak;
had to pump out a boat when it sprouted a leak.

I wore a ball gown while being announced with a horn.
I once lived in a state that only grew corn.

I was chauffeured around Washington, D.C.
I felt so special "just look at me".

I can still ride a bike and raise my hand.
I can build a castle made out of white sand.

But before I forget, it is important to note.
There is a meaning to all that I wrote.

I am a mother, grandmother and devoted wife.
That is the extraordinary part of my ordinary life!

What will you remember
of the days we could not play?
When things were very different
from just the other day.
We had to stay apart.
It was all that we could do.
There was no other way
to help the world get through.

What will you remember
of the days we could not play?
Will you always please remember
we wished it all away.
It must have been confusing
with people wearing masks.
We washed and scrubbed our hands
after very simple tasks.

One day the schools are open.
The next day they are not.
Marks and lines are on the floors
to stand on your own spot.

What will you remember
of the days we could not play?
I hope you will remember
it would not always be that way.

Love,
Grandma March 2020